a safe, ongoing discussion of depression, PTSD, and other mental health topics

Letter To My Younger Self

Dear younger me,

First off, I’d like to let you know that I’m totally stealing this idea from the first chapter of the new Hyperbole and a Half book, but as I’m writing this to you in the past, you haven’t read that book yet.

Anyway, let’s start over.

Dear 6-year-old me, that Lion King headband really doesn’t go with that plaid dress. You should really listen to your mom on that one. Also, you won’t know this for another 11 years, but you’re colorblind. I know you think you have this whole fashion thing down, but you really, really don’t.

Dear 7-year-old me, I know you’re at a new school, and I know things have gotten off to a rough start, what with being hospitalized for a good part of the school year, but telling your classmates that cats with wings are real and live in the forests of Montana is not a good way to make new friends. Trust me. That’s a really weird lie and no one believes you. I know you think they do, but they don’t. They’re going to continue mocking you for this for years to come.

Dear 14-year-old me, please don’t get into that go kart. Please. You will immediately drive it into a van and break a lot of bones. It won’t be your fault; the go kart will malfunction. You will be in a wheelchair for a month. Your hand and knee will never heal correctly. Walk away from the go kart.

Dear 15-year-old me, this is going to be a very bad year for you. From the car accident on your 15th birthday to your brother joining the military to your dad dying right before your 16th birthday, this is going to be a terrible year. Just power through and it will all be okay eventually. I promise.

Dear 16-year-old me, while I certainly support your punk rock predilections and your bold style choices, Robert Smith is not a hair icon. Also, fat pants don’t look good on anyone. One more thing, a bra plus a fishnet crop top does not equal an acceptable outfit to wear in public. Listen to your mom on this one, too.

Dear 17-year-old me, that guy who keeps making you mix cds and who bought you flowers that happened to match your tights, yeah, he’s got a thing for you. He’s way less of an asshole than everyone else you date. Please stop dating assholes and go for the good guy for once. Also, you’re colorblind. I tried to tell you when you were 7. Sorry. You’ve been dressing like a fool for years.

Dear 18-year-old me, you are so self-conscious and so worried about what everyone else thinks of you. Stop that. I just learned today that the person you had a huge crush on in high school and who you thought was so far out of your league, he actually admired you and counted you as one of the only people who understood him. You were just so wrapped up in your own shit that you couldn’t believe it. You’re going to go on to do big things, although it will never feel that way. People come to you when they’re in trouble. That’s a huge thing. Everything you are going through right now is building up to something. That thing you do where you over-share what you’re feeling, apparently people find that admirable. Little do you know now that you are saying out loud what everyone feels inside. You are already working on your crusade to de-stigmatize mental health. I’m writing this to you from 8 years in the future and I can tell you that this is the most important thing you’ve done thus far. The person you are now, the person you hate so much, is actually saving lives without even knowing it.

Dear me from yesterday, seriously, be more careful when dyeing your hair. Pretty sure that damage deposit is gone, but that’s no reason to discolor the walls. That being said, the new color looks great. Stay classy, babe.

P.S. Guys! If you are reading my mental health blog and you haven’t read Hyperbole and a Half by Allie Brosh (the book or the blog, really) go read it right now. You will find yourself.